Summer Showers
by Insanemistosingsmore
Summary: The long awaited last of my Four Season's Arc. Combeferre contemplates a summer rainstorm and the revolution. Barricade fic.
1. Recap: Winter

Winter Solstice

**Well, I'm over halfway done this series…and I'm afraid that the second half is the hardest. Please stay tuned as I try to attack the two most commonly slashed couples in a way that is not slash. Having said thus, this is not slash…if it comes across as slash, it is purely unintentional and is the result of my reading too many romances. Enjoy installment #3 of the Four Seasons arc! I'm afraid I portray Enjolras as a bit cruel though.**

**Disclaimer: You know what, I don't care anymore. Just know that I don't own, and I won't have to type these things anymore *cheers for no more typing disclaimers* and just for the record, I don't own the formula for disclaimers, either….although I don't know who first thought it up. **

Enjolras walked into the Café Musain, wondering when the infernal cold front would end. He saw that Grantaire either had beaten him there or had never left the night before. The latter seemed more likely, as Grantaire seemed to be suffering from a massive hang-over.

"Good morning, Grantaire. " Enjolras' tone was as biting as the winds blowing outside the door, and the fact was not lost on Grantaire. His whole posture became more erect, with the wince that would have come from the sudden noise quickly stifled. It wouldn't do to show weakness in front of the exacting leader.

"The season has been personified…or so it seems."

Enjolras was stupefied by this seemingly random comment from the drunkard. "What do you mean?"

"You, Enjolras, distance yourself from us all. Why? Are you afraid of getting too close to us? To me? After all, we used to be close friends…now you're frostier than the coldest winter freeze to me!"

"You didn't used to drink yourself into a stupor on a daily basis either. I suggest you come up with further evidence to back up your comparison, or retract it."

"How about the reproving glances at Courfeyrac…when he's done nothing more than enjoy the company of someone other than ourselves?"

"He compromises the security of the Amis." Enjolras was getting a little nervous, but there was no way he would let his former friend know that. He kept his voice level and his face calm.

"And then there's Jehan. He's young, yes, but that's no excuse for the verbal lashing you give him on a daily basis. He's trying his best, and if it weren't for the fact that he is spring itself, he'd be idolizing you! And even when he has a fantastic idea, you shoot him down. What is it…do you really think so low of the poor lad? Or are you afraid that his warm nature will melt that icy heart of yours?" Grantaire smirked. He always knew when he got his friend caught. He would give one of those cruel glares of his, then stalk off…but not this time.

"You forget…no matter how cruel the winter, there is always hope…the winter solstice. When spring is approaching, but it is still winter."

"Are you trying to say that you are the winter solstice? Maybe you work for it….but you are not it, in and of itself, Enjolras."

**Winter Snows.**

**Ok, I know that this is sudden…well kind of…but I was completely and totally disappointed with my work on Winter Solstice…and the title just didn't fit with the new and improved. This one does not feature Grantaire, but it does feature a hopefully more in character Enjolras, and focuses a lot more on the season itself.**

**Disclaimer: you all should know by now that I don't own it, but whatever. I really don't care. Sue me if you must, but I'm pretty sure I'm not Victor Hugo.**

_God it's cold!_ Enjolras thought as he walked into the Café Musain, bringing a flurry of snowflakes in with him. He had always found some reason to despise the winter months, and most of the excuses had something to do with the weather…but not this year. It was mid-January, 1832. The Revolution that Enjolras strode towards so resolutely was close, so close he could almost taste it. But as long as this deep freeze stayed over Paris, and it was likely to last until mid-April at the rate these things normally go, the time would never be right. Winter, after all, was a time of dormancy, when even the fiercest of beasts were as harmless as the flies that seemed to gather everywhere. Now, while people may not hibernate like the mammals of the woodlands, they are most certainly less receptive. For example, once the freeze had started, recruitment had dropped off sharply, despite Courfeyrac's best efforts. Enjolras was willing to be patient, though, if it was only the weather he had to wait for. After all, how could one expect the people to rise, when their blood was frozen in their veins instead of boiling with righteous anger?

"And so, this is our fearless leader's natural state of abstraction….although…do I detect the hint of a frown?" Courfeyrac was half talking to the newest recruit, a young poet named Jean Prouvaire, and half talking to Enjolras himself.

"Depends on whether or not you like the wintertime, M. de Courfeyrac." He left it at that, noting with a little bit of pleasure Courfeyrac's blush at the use of his participle.


	2. Summer Storms

**Ok, so I finally found the notebook my draft of Summer Storms was on, so here it is. Sorry it took so long. I think I'll leave the first bit up just as a reminder of what happens when we authors fall into the typical fandom tropes.**

Summers were often humid in Paris—that much was perfectly clear to Combeferre, had been since he'd moved to the city. What was, perhaps, even worse were the maddeningly frequent showers which, like as not, did nothing to truly relieve the oppressive mugginess. This time, however, he was grateful for the brief storm. It bought him time to truly help those who'd been injured in the fighting while the National Guard, unwilling to risk soaking their ammunition, waited it out. For the moment, he completely immersed himself in his work, too busy to think of much except the wounded before him. He kept his lessons in medicine at the forefront of his mind, not allowing himself to philosophize for the moment.

When the brief squall blew itself out, Combeferre took a moment to simply gather his wits about him—he'd be no use to anyone on this God-forsaken barricade if he was lost in thought. A startling thought struck him then: what if this fight, this barricade, was little more than a squall in the political summer humidity. Neither a small uprising nor a summer storm would do much to relieve the oppression felt all around. But then, one never knew for sure. Sometimes, it only took one quick shower to empty the atmosphere of excess moisture—even now, just after one such storm, the air felt blessedly _dry. _Other times, one small shower lead to a larger storm, and that would almost always do the trick. So, maybe they wouldn't completely change the political climate. But perhaps they could at least temporarily lift the oppression for a crucial moment. Then, the people would truly rise!


End file.
